Elpreties

Shirren rose his sole hand up to his eye, wiping away the swelling tear that glistened upon his lashes. This was truly the most moving thing he had ever had the honor to experience, and Shirren knew he would be indebted to this man for the rest of his days. A wry laugh escaped his lips as he looked towards the sky, tears now streaming down his smiling face like droplets of gold in the sun's rays. It was a good day to be alive.

This looks great! Of course it doesn't solve every problem on the server (because that would be ludicrous), but it certainly is a step in the right direction. Even just a simple nudge in the right direction will go miles towards new player integration. Having a little more information about where the rp is happening will go a long way. I also think a side effect of this is a pressure for players to be online more often, as inactive regions will get little foot traffic, which is inadvertently kind of insidious (in the slightest of degrees) but funny nonetheless. Maybe there could be a bell at city gates (like the raid bell) that pings that discord for new player initiators (in case you really want one specific city but there is no one online or willing to rp) or smth along those lines.

Shirren, upon hearing the news that the Rimetrolls drank the fertilizer potions, would die a little bit on the inside.

Shirren Ironwood existed.

--- The letter would be posted around Karosgrad, publicly available for all to read --- To Know Their Truth For those who wish to listen... Dear People of Hanseti-Ruska, My name is Shirren Ironwood, as some of you may know, many more may not. But it matters not either way. I am not here for myself, or for my compatriots. I am simply writing this letter to recount exactly what happened to the Rimetrolls of the North, and to give you all a new perspective on the world we live in. I write to you from a hospital bed, broken and battered, every inch of my body bruised and beaten. In fact, I cannot even lift the pen required to write out this letter myself. Thus I would like to take the time to thank Albrecht Mondblume for copying down my narrations, as well as being the one to distribute this missive around the town. His aid was invaluable to me. As I am sure many of you noticed, during the most recent Court, a one Corbin Wick stepped forth, proclaiming his plans of taking a small group of adventurers to wipe out the remains of the Rimetrolls. Many scoffed at the idea, but I stepped forth, eager for adventure. Long had my father told me tales of the monstrosity of the great Rimetrolls. The hulking beasts of frosty death, crushing all who stood in their path. That's how my father lost his legs. Crushed in an instant by a boulder hurled by the trolls during a raid. He never got over his resentment, and that made a deep impression on me. But when we finally reached the trolls, after hours of trudging through knee-deep snow and sleeting storms, what did we find but an innocent, joyous peoples. As we entered the great cavern where they resided, we laid witness to their humanity. They spoke in a unique dialect of common tongue. They had young children laughing and playing in the ice. In fact, they seemed no different than us really. Thus we made our presence known, offering a sack of potatoes the young Aleksey Ludovar had brought with him as a tribute of peace. The trolls made a great deal out of it, welcoming us strangers into their homes without a second thought, bringing forth their young, so open, so trusting. By this point, I did not know what to think. Why would these trolls be so warm and welcoming to us? Were we not the ones who burned their crops, slaughtered their warriors, and pushed them to the brink of extinction? My entire mind was wracked with confusion and guilt, unsure of what I could even say to these people. So I said nothing, just sat in silence around the fire, drinking their onion soup and watching their children play. One notable troll was Jub. She was the first to greet us, and her little cub was playful and cute. I will never be able to repent for what we did to her. Things were looking excellent, with both parties open to peaceful communication over a shared meal. But then I noticed it. Corbin, Keorn, and two other mages (I regretfully did not catch their names) had not followed us into the cavern. I looked around for them, but could not find hide nor tail of them. That is, until I could. A bellowing screech echoed throughout the great cavern as Keorn launched a massive fireball towards the icy roof, a surging force fueled by Corbin and the others. He had doomed us all, without warning and without reason. This act of incredible violence was not only completely unprovoked, but also completely unwarranted and posed a massive danger to the five of us inside the encampment. The ceiling exploded in a burst of flame and steam, as massive chunks of ice, some the size of a house, some bigger, broke free, flying down onto the denizens below with devastating force. Back down in the troll encampment, we leapt into action, diving forward to take cover under the magical tower shield that the elven mage Tarathiel erected, but the magic alone would not be enough to save us. Suddenly, Jub threw herself over us, using her own body as a shield to block the falling masses of ice from crushing us in an instant, each blow upon her body causing a pained shout as she was beaten to death by falling ice. Every time I try to close my eyes and sleep, those screams haunt me. And endless symphony of suffering that reminds me of all those I've ever failed, ever killed. Sitting there, buried under layers of freezing ice and crushing weight, everything fell away. I had a moment of clarity, one could say, that opened my eyes to the truth. The trolls were not the monsters. We were. After that, my memory is hazy. I know I survived, with several broken bones and one less arm than before. I know we were saved by a rescue team, greatly aided by the young troll Koggo. And I know that we failed. We failed our legacy, we failed the trolls, and we failed ourselves. It was a miracle that we survived at all, and one that will forever weigh heavy upon my heart. So what's the point? The time to act is now. We came to the Rimetrolls with words of peace, but behind our backs a vicious attack was made on defenseless women and children. We have wronged the Rimetrolls, and now they are on their last legs. As the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska, there are a few options that lay before us: We do nothing: This is clearly the worst option. The trolls are battered and beaten, but some yet live. Leaving them to fester in their rage will turn a group of innocent creatures who only raided our land for food out of desperation into a murderous horde thirsting for vengeance. We will be forced to waste Haensi lives in a bloody, vicious set of battles in the name of total genocide and hateful vengeance. We purge the remaining Rimetrolls: While distasteful, this is another option. If we strike now, we could enforce total extinction with only minor casualties on our side. If the Koeng really wishes it to be so, this is the second best option for ensuring the safety of Haense. We provide much needed aid and support: This is, according to all forms of logic, easily the best decision we could make. The trolls had farms that we destroyed in our conflict, but if we helped them prepare them, we could provide them with a way to sustain themselves without ever needing to raid Haense again. This would effectively end the war with 0 lives lost on either side. Additionally, the Rimetrolls would be a powerful ally to have. Having 10 foot tall hulking trolls on our side would be an obvious asset on any military endeavor, and would easily double the strength of our current military forces. You all saw how difficult the battle against the trolls was. Now imagine facing down our combined might. Not an easy task, eh? The fact of the matter is, in many regards, the Rimetrolls are just as human as we, and treating them as monsters would be a foolish mistake. They love, they laugh, and they cry, and I am imploring you dear reader, please, have the courage in your heart to accept these people for who they are and what they could mean to us. And Corbin Wick? If you are reading this, I hope you're happy with yourself. Ask yourself how many mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters you crushed to death, and know thy sins committed. I don't know what you were thinking or why you did it, but I will never forgive you, not for how you wronged me, but for how you wronged my compatriots, Pericvel, Aleksandra, Aleksey, and Tarathiel, and the countless defenseless families in that cavern you slaughtered. I do not claim to know the answers, and I am just as confused and saddened and fearful as the rest of you. But know this: My compatriots and I will forever be indebted to the Rimetrolls. They offered us peace and warmth even in the face of our cruelty, and when other humans stabbed them in the back, they did not hesitate to die protecting us. Those trolls were some of the most honorable and courageous beings I have ever met, and I will not rest until I repay that debt in full. Sincerely, HRA Footman Shirren Ironwood --- OOC --- Alright let me just be very clear about this. There are NO hard feelings OOC, and everyone should act as such. Everything was done in the name of roleplay, and I actually had a lot of fun in this event. I absolutely do not want to direct hate towards anyone involved whatsoever. I didn't know if I needed to have included this little disclaimer, but seeing as how some things can sometimes get out of hand, I figured it was better safe than sorry. Also poor Koggo He needs headpats

Missive in hand, Shirren read it silently, a blank look on his face, before sarcastically remarking, "What? Is Godan's will for the Koeng to stub his toe?" He shook his head softly before looking towards the hospital, shadowy figures illuminated against the curtains dancing in the firelight. A pained scream rang out as someone lost... an arm? maybe a leg? Shirren turned to look at the Palace. "My father once told me that a respected Koeng should be both beloved and feared by his people. Well I love him with all my heart. And I... well I certainly fear what he'll decide to do next," Shirren chuckled to himself, "So maybe he's got something figured out after all." Shirren strode off, stretching his left arm slowly. It was healing along nicely, and the bandages would be off soon. He grinned. "It's about time someone around here did something impressive."

Upon hearing the news back in Haense, Shirren frowned. This simply did not make sense. Why would rebels attack members of the church? It simply made no sense. There was nothing to gain. "What?" he asked himself, "Are they trying to get all of humanity to turn on them? What utter nonsense. Who would be so stupid?" Then he turned his head towards the south, peering out, knowing the towering spires of Providence lay just beyond the horizon. "Nay," he muttered, "something far more nefarious is going on here..."

Shirren sat in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. His broken arm was killing him, the blissfoil long having fallen away, and he simply could not fall asleep. But more than the pain, it was his mind that kept him awake. For every time he closed his eyes, such came forth the visage of the terrible busts, covered in blood and ash, the roaring flames surrounding them like a swirling torrent of hellfire, staring into his soul, judging him for every wrongdoing he had ever done. Shirren's left arm started to itch. He sat up, crawling out of bed, careful not to put weight onto his tender arm. Shirren got up, stumbled down the hall, each bunk he passed devoid of an occupant, and made his way into the barracks' courtyard. When the fresh air hit his face, Shirren breathed in as deeply as he could, his lungs swelling to capacity. The night air was cool against his skin, and it soothed his burning arm. The moon shone bright, but the streets of Haense were left completely abandoned. How strange. Shirren wandered through the empty alleyways, mindlessly following a path of meaningless direction, before finally stopping before the palace, a dark, looming shadow rising into the night sky. His arm pulsed with discomfort, the desire to scratch renewed thrice over. Shirren slid down to his knees, he couldn't bear it anymore. The urge was overwhelming his sense as he tore at the bandages covering his broken arm, throwing aside the splint that held it in place. At last freed, Shirren dug his fingernails into the soft, raw skin, raking his hand back with as much force as he could. Furiously he scratched at it, running his nails up and down with more and more pressure until the skin started to tear, blood oozing down his arm as he heedlessly continued. Then his fingers dug deep into raw flesh, and he howled in pain, but it felt not like it should. Shirren's entire arm felt like is was on fire, burning away to ash one layer at a time, the all consuming flames searing into his flesh with righteous desire. Shirren needed to cleanse himself, cleanse himself of this fire, cleanse himself of his sins, cleanse himself of his doubts. He needed to be cleanse. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be clea- Shirren bolted awake, sitting upright in his bunk, slamming his forehead into the bunk above him. He fell back onto his pillow, clutching his bruised forehead with his right hand. A disgruntled soldiers tossed down a pillow at Shirren, sleepily telling him to quit knocking about. Then he looked at his left and gave a sigh of relief. The arm was fine, still bandaged, and only ached with a dull pain. Outside the murmur of night traffic could be heard. People talking in the streets, the faint sound of distant music drifting through the windows, and a muted laughter echoing from somewhere down the way. Shirren smiled faintly. In the few years he had spent here, those sounds had become comforting, warm and welcome. He turned to look out the window, over the city below, saying under his breath, "We are Haense, and now amount of smoke and ash can obscure you from our view. We will find you, and in the end, you will be the one who's burning." Shirren laid back down, closing his eyes. Too many things were coming to a head at once, and it was stressing him out. He then glanced at his arm. He needed to get better, and fast. He could not afford to be handicapped much longer.

Shirren entered the Basilica, now devoid of life, with an empty bottle in his hand. He wore a pensive look on his face, and seemed preoccupied. Nevertheless he knelt down before alter, offered a small prayer, and turned to the basin of blessed water nearby. Shirren took the bottle forth and filled it with the water in the basin, his movements cool and calculated, an air of reverence about him. He then lifted it up, staring through the clear glass at the liquid within. "Holy water," he said, his words a half whisper, "I will not be caught unprepared again. Let the Daemons come, let them see what the HRA has in store for them." All around him, Shirren could feel the machinations of something moving, something big. And like it or not, he would be ready.

Reading the missive in passing, Shirren stopped in his tracks to get a closer look. Sure there were many things about Haense and the people who ran it that he disagreed with, but the men and women of the HRA were his brethren, tried and true. That was no question. He would sooner lay down his life than let their good names be dragged through the dirt. To the missive, Shirren spoke, as if his words could somehow reach the author, wherever he may be. "You call us the villains, but we are not the ones lighting children on fire. If you want to make a statement, by all means, we can handle it. But don't do it with the lives of innocents. That makes you the lowest kind of scum. The kind that cannot be washed off, but instead must be burned." At this, Shirren snatched up the poster from the wall, tossing it to the side on a nearby torch. The missive burst into flames, slowly drifting to the ground as it twirled through the air. Paper turned to ash as ash turned to smoke, gray wisps drifting off with the light breeze. And as the paper slowly, gently fell down to alight upon the ground, Shirren's boot slammed down upon it. He twisted his heel, grinding the smoldering paper into the dirt. Yet his face remained neutral, and his eyes shined with a slight gaze of disdain. Then he turned around and strode off, muttering to himself. "We're gonna need more buckets..."

Shirren Ironwood leaned on the railing of the balcony outside his room in the HRA barracks. Far below him, the hustle and bustle of city life carried on. But up here, the world was clam. A light breeze ruffled the paper in his hands, a letter, now slightly crumpled, proudly emblazoned with the crest of the Knights of Haense. But Shirren was not looking at the letter. Nay, he payed it no heed. Instead, his eyes gazed out past the front gates of the city, as if searching for something he could not see. In a quiet voice, barely a whisper, Shirren spoke. "Are not the Knights meant to be paragons of truth and virtue? Meant to symbolize all that is right in the world? Is that not why I'm here? Is that not what I strive for?" He shifted his gaze now towards the castle. "Should I choose to take the vows of knighthood, what will you make me do in the name of chivalry? Will truth and justice be that which I fight for, or are those oaths naught but chains to bind me?" A pause. Shirren fell into a pensive silence, perhaps waiting for a reply that could never come. He slowly looked down, his eyes falling upon the letter in his hands. Rumors spread fast, but the facts were much slower. If Shirren wanted answers, he would have to go to the source.

IGN: Elpreties Character: Shirren Ironwood